


Sandalwood

by deripmaver



Category: Captive Prince - C. S. Pacat
Genre: Developing Relationship, Emotional Hurt, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Fade to black sex, Feels, Fluff, Fluff and Angst, Gentle Kissing, Hurt/Comfort, Intimacy, Kissing, M/M, Massage, Past Rape/Non-con, Post-Canon, Touchy-Feely, canon typical warnings mentioned briefly, erasmus is a good boy and i love him
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-01-02
Updated: 2021-01-02
Packaged: 2021-03-11 02:40:19
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,256
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28327674
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/deripmaver/pseuds/deripmaver
Summary: Erasmus and Kallias share an intimate moment after being reunited in Ios.
Relationships: Erasmus/Kallias (Captive Prince)
Comments: 4
Kudos: 25
Collections: Captive Prince Secret Santa 2020





	Sandalwood

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Assidi](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Assidi/gifts).



> MERRY CRISIS i hope you enjoy the fic!!!!!! just two sweet bois being sweet to each other. i love them so much,,,,, 🥺🥺🥺

“Do you remember when we used to do this?”

Erasmus shudders, body rippling under Kallias’ touch as those nimble fingers draw tingling paths down the sides of his scalp, through his golden curls. His eyes flutter shut, lips parted gently, the sensation of touch soft and tantalizing.

“I do,” Erasmus breathes, ducking his head, flushed as though embarrassed. “In the gardens, the perfume from the orange trees all around us on those summer nights.”

Kallias smiles behind him – Erasmus knows his body so intimately he can feel it in how Kallias’ posture changes, though he can’t see the soft turn of his lips. “The scent was so cloying I thought it would drive me mad. It made me want to kiss you senseless.”

Erasmus laughs, breathlessly, imagining the warm heat of Kallias’ mouth against his. “Don’t blame that on the orange trees, dear one.”

Kallias chuckles and brushes away the smooth silk of Erasmus’ curls to press a soft kiss to the nape of his neck. It sends sparks shooting down to Erasmus’ toes, which curl instinctively, the soft pink pad of his soles soft and pumiced to remove any callouses.

Erasmus remembers the feeling of their kisses. How desperately he’d wanted to, how his fingers felt against the soft plumpness of Kallias’ lips, softened with oils like the rest of his skin, but so devoted to his supplication that he could not bear the thought of kissing him even though his whole body screamed for it.

Kallias massages his scalp with fingers coated in musky oil, softening his curls, spreading the oil through them. It’s damp and hot against his skin, the oil warmed in Kallias palm, coating his hair and making it soft as silk as it sinks in during the night. With fingers nimble and strong, he parts Erasmus hair gently, beginning to braid with another quick kiss to Erasmus’ bare shoulder.

Erasmus remembers the violence of their first kiss, the way Kallias’ lips crashed against his like the storm-riled ocean beating against the shore, turning up shells and fish and bits of wood. He remembers the way betrayal had struck him, white hot and horrifying, a bolt of lightning directly through his heart.

He understands now, understood soon afterwards when he heard the whispers of all those wearing Exalted’s pin struck down – suicide, they called it, but slaves talk, and slaves knew those were lives snuffed out simple as one snuffs out a candle at bedtime – but the feeling of it seems to be imprinted on him. That, and the feeling of everything else that happened to him in Vere, all wrapped up into one tight knot in his throat that chokes him in the middle of the night with no warning.

Every kiss since then has been so tender it’s brought tears to his eyes. Slow, soft explorations – Kallias letting Erasmus taste his mouth gently, slip his tongue tentatively between the pink of his lips and feel every curve and crevice inside of him.

A shudder runs through him, suddenly – an unpleasant one, a lurching in his gut that makes him want to curl into a ball and hide. It’s hard not to think of how every one of his firsts was an act of violence, even if now he gets to be free with his affections, choose who he gives himself to.

He wants to hide, his pulse frantic and beating like a rabbit chosen on the hunt.

Kallias’ hands still in his hair, making the shuddery feeling stop abruptly, and Erasmus frowns at his absence. He had hardly even noticed the braid was finished, his mind starting to wander – it’s like a child, he thinks. If he does not keep an eye on it it will wander off into danger and someone will need to pull him back before he hurts himself.

With one final scratch of his scalp, Kallias wraps Erasmus’ braid in a cloth cap to let the oil sink in overnight.

“Your shoulders are so tense, sweetheart,” Kallias whispers. “Did I hurt you?”

_Yes. No, but yes, but – not like that_. _But you needed to, or I would have died._

“I became frightened all of a sudden,” Erasmus murmurs. “I don’t know why. I was just lost in thought, and I frightened myself.”

He turns to face Kallias and nestles into his chest, letting him rub his back gently. Shudders run through him, the slight release of tension with each stroke of Kallias’ hands, pulling him back from his momentary fear.

Kallias kisses his forehead, his cheeks. His lips are so full and plump, like two pillows against his face. Erasmus cannot stand it, and crashes their lips together clumsily, Kallias half on the way to press a kiss to his nose. He catches the corner of his mouth and whines, waiting for Kallias to readjust with a huff and a laugh.

Their kiss is long, languid, and deep. It’s warm and intoxicating, soft and pliant. It’s the way Erasmus dreamed kisses would be when all he knew were the songs and ballads and the practice motions the slave trainers drilled into him. He feels safe here, like this, in Kallias’ arms with his lips on his and his hands rubbing circles into his shoulders through the thin fabric of his chiton.

When Kallias pulls back, saliva glistens in a string between their mouths, his lips glossy and pink. Erasmus feels the heat in his cheeks – he practiced in front of a mirror so often as a teen that he knows the minutia of his his skin changes when he’s aroused, when he’s flushed with desire – so he can guess at what Kallias sees even though mirrors frighten him now. He hopes Kallias likes it.

“Can I give you a massage?” Kallias breathes against his lips. “I know how you liked it back in the gardens. You worked so hard every day.”

The feeling of Kallias’ fingers digging into the hot muscle of his calves after hours and hours of supplication, melting them into soft putty.

“Yes,” Erasmus nods, cheeks warming even more. “Yes. Please.”

Disrobing, something he’s done a dozen times before in front of Kallias, feels so intimate now with the barriers of supplication removed. A part of him is afraid of the way things have shifted in meaning – something that before was innocent has suddenly become sultry now that he is free to give his body willingly to anyone, now that disrobing around Kallias means he’s putting his body and his heart in his hands.

He ducks his head shyly as the fabric pools around his hips, and he wriggles out of it ungracefully – he does not need to be graceful anymore – to kick it off to the side. Kallias is still clothed, and the stark different between the two of them now makes him shudder. He feels submissive like this, but it’s a strange submission to him, because he chose it freely.

Kallias grips his thigh, not ungently, but firm enough that Erasmus startles. He flushes, knowing without looking what Kallias is touching, but after a moment his eyes flutter downwards regardless. The scars are still a rigid, thick white on his thigh – burn scars are particularly disfiguring, the way the skin blisters and bubbles and warps at the miserable, unending heat.

“Sorry,” Erasmus waves his hand, not sure what he’s apologizing for. That Kallias has to see them? That he has them to begin with? He tries to wriggle free, to turn around, but Kallias holds him firm with one hand and cups his cheek with the other.

Kallias kisses him again, slow and deep, blue eyes closed. Erasmus knows if they were open he’d see pain in them, and his heart hurts at the guilt Kallias must feel. What could Kallias have done but take what little agency his station allowed to save Erasmus in the only way he could?

Kallias’ thumb runs gently over the raised scar tissue, like he can massage it away just like he does the aches in Erasmus’ muscles.

He doesn’t say anything. Erasmus thinks his heart might break if he did – instead, when they break away from the kiss, Erasmus rolls onto his stomach on the marble floor. It makes the tender points of his hips ache, so Kallias slips rolled up cloth beneath them. He’s so thoughtful, that way. He always looks out for him – he even was looking out for him that terrifying night he kissed him all those months ago.

“You know,” Kallias murmurs, and Erasmus hears the slick sound of oil being massaged between warm fingers, “I think you might look even better this way.”

“This way?” Erasmus teases, arching his back just a little and wriggling his hips.

Kallias laughs and smacks him with a towel, not enough to sting but enough that Erasmus jumps. He laughs – they both laugh. It echoes in the chamber, sounds bright and alive like birdsong.

“I mean now that you’ve let yourself tan,” Kallias huffs, the smile still evident in his voice, “Now that your skin is this lovely golden, and your hair is like dark honey.”

Erasmus flushes. He hadn’t dared try to maintain his hair and skincare routine in Arles, not with how the courtiers spoke of the very blonde and very pale prince. He was sure he’d never heard anyone described with such vulgarity – particularly the courtiers closest to the regent. That had been his first shock, how a man could stand his nephew spoken of that way, the things they wished to do to him-

(It made sense now, of course, but most days he could barely dare to think on that or he’d lose himself in horror.)

And then he was with Torveld, who as far as he knew did not have the same aesthetic preferences as Damianos-Exalted, and who had taken him with great shyness to the beach and watched as Erasmus had dipped into the gemstone-bright water and frolicked around like a child at play. He’d taken him back then, day after day, and Erasmus had become nearly as tan as Damianos-Exalted but with a spill of golden hair.

Torveld had let Erasmus return to Kallias once Patras had abolished slavery, with his well-wishes and a sigh of bright futures. He always had a place in Patras, he was told, he and Kallias both. Perhaps once things were more settled, he’d take Kallias to the beaches there, and watch him splash like a child in the water.

Kallias’ fingers are as sure and steady as Erasmus remembers. It feels some days like they cling to the routines they once knew, because there’s this gaping chasm of change between them. Other days, though, Kallias is a solid weight of happier times, when Erasmus thought the world was kind, when Erasmus knew Kallias would protect him from anything.

And wasn’t that true, then? Kallias had protected him from death. How could he be blamed for what happened afterwards?

“I feel so safe with you,” Erasmus whispers. He pretends he does not notice the slight hiccup in Kallias’ motions, cheek pressed into his arms so he can watch the rhythmic strokes out of the corner of his eye.

Kallias leans down to kiss Erasmus’ nape again, whispering, “I’m so glad.”

His shoulders melt at the repetitive strokes, the pressure firm but not painful, never painful. Kallias digs one elbow into Erasmus’ low back and Erasmus can’t help but jump as he hears a low _pop_. It’s not painful, and Kallias is laughing, so he isn’t afraid.

“You’re sitting still for too long each day,” Kallias tuts, digging in deeper. It feels so good, like his body is sinking into the floor, relaxed and at peace.

“I’m trying to learn to read,” Erasmus whines, petulant.

“Can’t you do that walking around?” Kallias argues back.

“But then my arms get tired from holding the book,” Erasmus sniffs. He shakes his head, the smile on his face private and only for Kallias, just like his body is.

At that, Kallias straddles his back, running his hands in smooth motions down the muscles of his arms. His shoulders relax, his biceps, his whole upper half like unbaked dough in Kallias’ hands. It’s daring, salacious, massaging him like this – and Erasmus suspects that was the whole point. He can feel the ripple of Kallias’ hips as he digs in deep into Erasmus’ shoulder blades, kneading the muscle intently, and Erasmus thinks fondly of the ripple of his hips as Kallias rides him late at night. He’d never imagined he’d be the one inside anyone, and yet, he fits so well into Kallias it’s as though it was meant.

Maybe one day he’ll let Kallias into him, as well.

Kallias shifts – Erasmus feels something heavy and hard against his back, between Kallias’ plush thighs. It sends a shudder of excitement through him, that he can illicit this kind of reaction from someone he trusts so intimately.

The fall back into their routines, but there’s a newness to their relationship too, something bright and fresh as dew on a spring morning. Something Erasmus could never have even imagined a year ago. He cannot be happy about how things happened, but he is excited with where he is now – with Kallias, with his freedom, with happiness a real, tangible thing for him.

“You know,” Erasmus grins, “I can feel there’s a part of you that needs massaging as well.”

Kallias stills. He laughs, clear and bright, and he leans down to capture Erasmus’ lips in a kiss.

  
  



End file.
